


Sabbaticals

by manic_intent



Series: Sabbaticals [1]
Category: Ginga Eiyuu Densetsu | Legend of the Galactic Heroes
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Corporate, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, That modern AU where Reuenthal tries to get Yang to work for Reinhard's company
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-13
Updated: 2020-02-13
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:20:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22686145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manic_intent/pseuds/manic_intent
Summary: “You’ve got the wrong person. I don’t speak English, sorry,” Yang lied in crisp Mandarin, his preferred ploy for getting away from people who recognised him in public.The stranger frowned at him—he’d understood. “I know you do, I’ve seen your interviews.” He held out a hand. “Oskar von Reuenthal.”Somewhat taken aback by the blunt statement, Yang said, “Ah, nice to meet you?”Reuenthal’s lip curled. “You don’t remember me, do you?” He spoke English with a harsh Germanic accent.
Relationships: Oskar von Reuenthal/Yang Wenli
Series: Sabbaticals [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1865353
Comments: 6
Kudos: 98





	Sabbaticals

**Author's Note:**

  * For [beingevil](https://archiveofourown.org/users/beingevil/gifts).



> Prompt from @beingevil/fen, who asked for a Modern AU Reuyang Corporate AU +Bittenfeld (Preferred spelling) where they go for drinks then end up in bed. 
> 
> Corporate AUs nowadays are often a way for me to complain about the insertion of corporate money into politics. These past four years have made me feel like I’ve aged a million years. TBH I’m not American, and I don’t have any preference in the Democratic primary, I just hope one of them will win. If you can vote, pls for the love of gods vote.

The Armoury in the Poldi Pezzoli Museum in Milan looked like a vault snipped out of a spy film, with its high stucco ceiling, recessed shadowless light features, and prismatic glass cases. Yang Wen-li bent over a case of suspended rifles, admiring the detail that went into each weapon. The room sat quietly under the weight of its history, a rarity for this part of the world near peak tourist season. 

It didn’t last. Someone walked into the room with long strides. Yang mentally erased the person from his immediate universe, a necessary tactic for enjoying Italy during tourist season. Unfortunately, whoever it was came to a stop beside him. Yang straightened up, opting to shuffle pointedly away to a corner of the Armoury.

“Yang Wen-li,” said the stranger. He spoke Yang’s name with the correct inflexion, but he was not Chinese. Tall and coldly handsome, the stranger’s dark brown hair was combed back neatly over an aquiline face. He had arresting eyes in different shades: one blue, one green. In deference to the crisp morning, the stranger wore a black wool coat with brass buttons over tailored grey pants and shiny oxfords. Yang himself was dressed to be invisible, with a plain white sweater and jeans. 

“You’ve got the wrong person. I don’t speak English, sorry,” Yang lied in crisp Mandarin, his preferred ploy for getting away from people who recognised him in public. 

The stranger frowned at him—he’d understood. “I know you do, I’ve seen your interviews.” He held out a hand. “Oskar von Reuenthal.” 

Somewhat taken aback by the blunt statement, Yang said, “Ah, nice to meet you?”

Reuenthal’s lip curled. “You don’t remember me, do you?” He spoke English with a harsh Germanic accent. 

“Not particularly,” Yang admitted, “though it’d probably come to me.” It was his second lie for the day. 

“I called you a week ago on behalf of my employer.”

“Oh, right.” Yang vaguely recalled getting a phone call in a restaurant. He’d assumed it was a client call and had pretended to have urgent business, hanging up and returning to his tiramisu. 

Reuenthal was starting to look annoyed. “I’m the CMO of the Goldenlöwe Group. Reinhard asked me to approach you for an upcoming project.” 

“Reinhard… as in ‘the Kaiser’? Von Lohengramm?” Yang said, scratching his head. Reinhard’s conglomerate company had a spidery hold over Germany and much of Europe, swallowing companies in tech, consumables, and finance into an empire with an outsized influence on life in this part of the world. Much like the chaebols in South Korea. 

“Quite,” Reuenthal said briskly. “We’re looking for—”

“I’m on sabbatical. Contact Frederica; she’s my business partner. I’m sure she’d be happy to help.” Yang patted himself down for business cards and found a dog-eared one in a back pocket that he handed over to Reuenthal.

Reuenthal held it delicately between a thumb and forefinger. “Reinhard was insistent that you handle the matter personally.” 

“I’m on leave. If he needs to insist, he can wait.” 

“Wait? Until when?” 

“I’m on break for a year, so. Next year? The office is closed for the first week of January, though. So after the first week.” 

Reuenthal stared at him, incredulous. “A year.” 

“Yes?” Yang had thought this well-known, but then again, the design industry lived in an insular bubble at the best of times. “Seriously, Frederica will do fine. She’s better than I am.” 

Reuenthal shook his head. “Reinhard was very specific.”

“Did he really send his CMO to Milan to hunt me down?” That would be going above and beyond in Yang’s experience. 

“No. Our meeting here is a coincidence.” 

Relieved that he wasn’t about to be stalked for the rest of his trip, Yang said, “Small world. What are you doing in Milan?” 

“Same reason that you’re here, I presume. Attending the miArt exhibition, then the Salone del Mobile.” Reuenthal surveyed the rifles in the case with a critical eye. “Beautiful, aren’t they?”

“A beautiful waste, yes.” Yang belatedly lowered his voice, in case he got thrown out of yet another museum. 

Reuenthal looked amused. “How so?” 

“Look at it. So much care, workmanship, and love went into something made to kill another living thing. The armour, the shields, the blades, the rifles in this room are art, certainly, but it’s art that stands testament to the uglier parts of human nature.”

“Don’t tell me that you’re one of those tedious pacifists,” Reuenthal said, crossing his hands behind his back in parade rest. Ex-military, maybe. Yang knew the look. And the attitude. 

“Pacifism is a pipe dream for a kinder reality than the one we live in, but I like to pretend I’m in a different timeline now and then.” Copious amounts of brandy leavened by hot tea sometimes helped. 

Reuenthal smiled. He raked Yang with an appraising, unsettling stare, a hunting hawk sizing up prey. Yang met his eyes and refused to budge. He’d met people like Reuenthal before. Either you earned their respect quickly, or they despised you as beneath them forever. Reuenthal was the first to look away, making a show of checking his phone. “Dinner?” he asked. 

“Sorry, what?” 

“Would you be free for dinner?” Reuenthal asked, his smile briefly baring perfect white teeth. “Tonight.” 

Arrogance from people like Reuenthal usually served at best to amuse Yang. He was indifferent to power and the powerful, and life had so far conspired to make it easy for Yang to ignore either. Reuenthal was impossible to ignore, for some reason that Yang couldn’t immediately pinpoint, and it intrigued him enough that he nodded his head slowly. “Where?”

“Seven. Il Ristorante, Niko Romito. Don’t be late.” Reuenthal handed Yang a card and sauntered off with a hand tucked into the pocket of his coat. 

Yang stared at the empty room, bemused. “What an irritating guy,” he murmured, looking at the card. It wasn’t printed on particularly thick stock, and there was nothing special about the finishing on it that suggested that Reuenthal hailed from one of the biggest tech conglomerates in the world. “And what an irritating card.”

Tossing the card into the nearest bin, Yang checked the itinerary that Frederica had prepared for him. As he caught a cab to his next stop, he sent her a text. 

**YWL:** ran into goldenlowes cmo in poldi museum  
**FG:** wat  
**FG:** so random  
**YWL:** yeah  
**YWL:** he asked me for dinner  
**YWL:** shld hv said no  
**FG:** make up a reason then  
**FG:** ur on sabbatical  
**FG:** tell him ur sick  
**YWL:** o  
**YWL:** gd idea  
**YWL:** can’t though  
**FG:** : why not  
**YWL:** don’t have his number  
**YWL:** his card was so ugly I threw it away  
**FG:** . . . . .

#

Yang didn’t have any fancy restaurant clothes and couldn’t be bothered shopping for anything new, so he didn’t change for the occasion. The doorman stared askance at Yang as he slunk into the chic black interior of the Bvlgari hotel but made no comment. With the Salone imminent, Milan was full of Chinese tourists anyway. The concierge directed him to the back of the hotel with a warm smile.

The restaurant was as monochrome as the lobby. The harsh swathes of black from the furniture, walls, and the huge edifice of a bar on the first tier of the restaurant would usually have been annoying, but it drew his eye instead to the lush garden beyond the restaurant, framed in glass. As Yang admired the view, the maitre’d cleared her throat discreetly at his elbow. “Do you have a reservation?” 

“Ah… I don’t know.” Yang peered from table to table and spotted Reuenthal at the far corner. “My friend’s over there, thanks.” 

As Yang sat at the table, Reuenthal said, “You’re late.” 

“Yes, well, I didn’t realise it was in the Bvlgari hotel, so I walked past it a few times, then I couldn’t find the entrance to the hotel, so.” Yang shrugged. In his usual life, navigation was for Frederica to handle. During sabbaticals, it didn’t generally matter whether Yang got lost on his way to anything, since he had a whole year to burn. 

“You could have called.” 

“I misplaced your card. I did try calling the Goldenlöwe Group’s Italian office to try and see if they could pass me your number, but I got put through to a strange person.” 

“A strange person?” Reuenthal asked, his annoyance easing into wary curiosity. “How so?” 

“He was very angry for some reason. Kept shouting over the phone about how I had no taste. Maybe he thought I was someone else.” 

“Did you get his name?” 

“No. I find angry people very tiring. I hung up on him and thought I’d just keep looking.” Yang picked up the menu, tickling his fingers appreciatively over the fine leather. “What’s good here?” 

“What would you like to eat?”

“I’m not fussy,” Yang said, which was an understatement. “I spent most of my life living off instant food and takeout. I don’t usually go to nice restaurants.” 

“You live in New York,” Reuenthal said, surprised. “There are a lot of good restaurants in your city. Surely you can afford it—your firm is one of the most famous creative firms in the world.” 

“I guess. We’ve been lucky.” 

“Modesty is banal for a man of your achievements.” 

“We’re at a position where we can pick our clients and dictate how we want to run a file. Given how the industry is now, I think that’s lucky.” Yang opened the wine list and flicked over to the liquor section. Recognising one of the brands, he ordered a pot of tea and brandy to match. Reuenthal asked for wine, which was fetched for him with obsequious speed. The restaurant knew who he was. 

“Interesting,” Reuenthal said, when Yang poured himself half a cup of tea and topped it up with brandy, then added in copious amounts of sugar. “Do you have any dietary requirements or allergies?”

“No.” Yang started to open the menu, only for Reuenthal to pluck it out of his hands and call the maitre’d over. A few Italian phrases were exchanged, and the maitre’d nodded and took the menus. “Oh… weren’t we going to order?” 

“The chef knows what I like. You’ll be having the same,” Reuenthal said, sipping his wine. 

Yang let out a startled laugh. “I’m starting to think it’s a good thing that Reinhard asked you to contact me during my sabbatical.”

“How so?” 

“Working for you would’ve been a nightmare,” Yang said, toasting Reuenthal with his brandy tea and taking a sip. 

Reuenthal let out a strange huffing sound that resolved into a low laugh. “Not many people in the world would dare say something like that to my face.” 

“So it’s true?” 

“I get results,” Reuenthal said with a cold smile. 

“Besides,” Yang said, leaning his cheek on his palm, “We weren’t your first choice for the project, were we?” 

“How would you know that?” 

“You’re making no real attempt to play to my ego. It’s refreshing.” 

“I could say the same. You’ve wrong, however. Iserlohn Creative would have been my first choice, even if Reinhard hadn’t made it clear that it was his only choice.” 

“Reinhard thinks too highly of me. There are any number of great studios in the world. Plenty of them in Germany itself,” Yang said. 

“Your branding work is impressive, but what Reinhard is after is your strategic thinking. You’ve guided many campaigns to success against all odds. Isn’t that why the industry calls you ‘the Magician’?” 

Yang grimaced. “That kind of thing just erases all the work that the rest of my firm puts into every project. I don’t deserve that sort of credit. I wouldn’t even have the clients we do today if not for Frederica and the others—I hate talking to clients.” 

“I suppose I should be honoured that you’ve deigned to have dinner with me, then,” Reuenthal said. 

“You asked. I presume you’re paying. What sort of project is so important that Reinhard wants only my help, anyway? Plenty of other agencies also do brand strategy.” 

“Reinhard has American citizenship from his mother’s side.” 

“And so?” 

“And so,” Reuenthal said, smiling coldly, “he’s decided to run for President.”

#

“How was it?” Reuenthal asked as he escorted Yang out of the restaurant.

“Dinner? Ah… it was all right,” Yang said. He was grateful that it was over. Stimulating as it was to talk to someone with an incisive mind, it’d also exhausted Yang. He thought fondly of hot showers and his cramped hotel room. “Thanks? For the invite?”

“You don’t sound certain,” Reuenthal said, amused. “Was the company that intolerable?” 

“No, well, that’s not it.” 

“Then the food?” 

“I don’t understand the point of themed brand experiences like that,” Yang conceded, with a glance behind him to make sure the maitre’d was out of hearing range. “It isn’t technically called the ‘Bvlgari Restaurant’, sure, but the menu, cutlery and all that is branded. You’d think that the restaurant would make a greater effort to extend the experience into the design of its food. As it is, all I’ve learnt about the brand from the last few hours is that it’s unnecessarily expensive and it owns an olive tree farm for some reason.” 

“Unnecessarily expensive,” Reuenthal repeated with a chuckle. “What would you have done?”

“I’m not a chef; I can barely cook. Hypothetically, I’d start with a multi-tiered menu. Maybe inspired by Bvlgari history, maybe from their current collection or whatever. And what was with that weird dessert at the end? It was like a gold-dusted brownie.” 

“You should pitch your ideas to Bvlgari.” 

Yang shuddered. “I hate pitching. It’s a blight on the industry. People expect you to come up with free ideas just for maybe the chance to work you to the bone? No. We don’t pitch.” 

“Isn’t it common practice?” 

“It is. Earlier on, when the studio was less famous, my no-pitching policy did lead to a few lean years.”

Reuenthal nodded. “Sticking to your principles even though it hurts your bottom line—”

“Wasn’t anything praiseworthy like that. Those were good years. I worked on a few personal projects, and I read a lot. If I could have them again and still pay my employees what they’re worth, I would. Having to deal with clients is such a pain.” 

“If you wanted to design without client input, become an artist.” 

“I know, I know. That’s what the sabbaticals are for. Doing my own thing. If it were left to me, I’d spend the whole year lazing around in my apartment.” 

“Why don’t you?” 

“The firm has far too much fun planning my sabbatical. Things to do and see, stuff like that. Then they print it all out as a book.” Yang handed over the small volume from his bag. Julian and the juniors had gone above and beyond this year, what with getting the book hand-stitched, risograph printed, and having Yang’s name picked out in holographic foil on the cover. “When they’ve gone to this much trouble, it’s hard to say no.” 

Reuenthal flipped through the book until he came to the section on Milan. He started to say something, only to stiffen up as someone stormed toward them from the couches near the concierge. The stranger was a big man with carrot-coloured hair, his scowling face cut in harsh angles over a black suit that stretched poorly over his large shoulders. “There you are! Can’t you fucking answer your phone?” the stranger boomed, loud enough to startle the concierge. 

“Bittenfeld. What are you doing here?” Reuenthal asked, his expression settling into a cold mask. 

“Oh, and some weird bastard called the head office in Rome asking for you with some weak-assed lie about how you gave him your card in a museum and you wanted him to work for you or something.” Bittenfeld rolled his eyes. “This is Italy, not Berlin. If you want to break shit off with your exes just man up and do it. Don’t leave them hanging or they’ll just harass the goddamned office.”

“You came here because of something so minor?” Reuenthal sneered. “Do you have that much free time? No wonder the Italian branch isn’t doing so well.” 

Bittenfeld glared at him. “Obviously fucking not. You can get stabbed to death by an ex for all I care. Reinhard—” He cut himself off as though belatedly noticing Yang’s presence. “Huh? Who is this?” 

“We spoke on the phone, I think,” Yang said with a wry smile. “I’m the ‘weird bastard’. Sorry if my call caused you any inconvenience. I was telling the truth—Reuenthal did invite me to dinner, but I misplaced his card.” 

“What.” Bittenfeld stared at Yang, then at Reuenthal. “Huh. Dinner. Right just then? At that fancy restaurant?” 

“Fuck off,” Reuenthal snapped, even as Yang nodded. 

“You look way too normal to be one of this guy’s usual flings,” Bittenfeld said with a suspicious look at Reuenthal. “Are you branching out or something? Anyway,” Bittenfeld told Yang in a marginally more friendly tone, “let me give you some advice, since you seem like a nice guy. This man is bad news. His flings last what, two months tops? Then he’d be on to something new. So get out while you still can.” 

“I’ll take your advice to heart, Mister Bittenfeld,” Yang said, chuckling. “Nice to meet you,” he told Reuenthal, “but don’t get in touch anymore, all right? Answer’s still no.” He inclined his head at a sphinx-faced Reuenthal and walked quickly out of the concierge. 

“Wow,” Yang heard Bittenfeld say behind him, “did he just dump you on the spot? Harsh.”

#

Yang considered skipping the miArt exhibition entirely in case he ran into Reuenthal. Still, after the third person from the studio emailed him to ask him for pics, he found himself walking over to the exhibition hall from the train station. The roads were cordoned off—for some reason, a marathon was happening at the same time. By the time Yang managed to navigate to the right side of the road and find the right entrance, he was exhausted.

Ah well. He’d take a few photos and go somewhere nice to have tea. Yang shuffled in line and was eventually disgorged into a large white and steel space, filled with rows upon rows of section-off exhibition spaces. Having never been much of a student of art despite his profession, Yang picked one corridor at random and walked. Five minutes in, Yang started to regret not finding a way to get baked before attending the exhibition. If he were high, maybe some of the pieces would make sense. 

As Yang stared at a fresh tomato spinning slowly in a steel basin of water, a familiar voice thundered, “Huuhh? Isn’t that just some chilli peppers glued to a handbag? Fuck _me_.” 

Ducking hastily behind a giant statue of a bulldog, Yang was just in time to see Reuenthal walking briskly past while rubbing at his temple. Bittenfeld trailed behind him, excitedly taking photographs of everything while talking at the top of his voice. Some people honestly had no indoor volume setting. Yang waited until Bittenfeld’s voice faded into the distance and cautiously stepped out from behind the statue. Taking a few quick photos, Yang made his way to the exit. 

Sneaking out from one of the smaller exits, Yang let out a sigh of relief—only to yelp as fingers closed over his elbow. “Quiet,” Reuenthal said, shooting an annoyed glance behind his shoulder. “Found you. Are you leaving? So am I.” 

“Uh… morning?” Yang said. “Wait. Did you know I was going to be at the exhibition at this time?” 

“You left something with me.” Reuenthal handed the studio’s itinerary book back to Yang. “Move.” 

Bemused, Yang let himself get pulled along across the street and down a block past the station. Reuenthal tugged Yang to a stop beside a sleek silver Porsche. Waving him in, Reuenthal circled over to the driver’s seat. 

The car started up with a hum instead of a roar. “I didn’t know Porsche made electric cars,” Yang said, looking around in curiosity as he strapped in. Reuenthal grunted. He peeled away from the side street and didn’t say a word until they were ten minutes away from the exhibition. 

Yang started to laugh. Reuenthal glowered at him, but that only made Yang laugh more uncontrollably. Returning his eyes to the road, Reuenthal said, “I hate that man.” 

“Isn’t he the regional manager for Europe?” Frederica had said so after Yang told her about the chance meeting in the Bvlgari hotel. 

“He’s ill-suited to the position and only received it because Reinhard’s fond of him,” Reuenthal said with a sour look. “Hopefully he won’t rise any further.”

“There’s no space for him at the top,” Yang said, having passed his time at breakfast reading some of the pre-client audit that Iserlohn had performed on the Goldenlöwe Group. The principal executive positions around Reinhard had stayed unchanged for years: the newest addition was the deputy CEO, Hilda von Mariendorf, who had been promoted up through the ranks. “Is that a problem?”

“No. Bittenfeld is many annoying things, but he isn’t ambitious in that way. That’s why I tolerate him. He’s loyal.” 

“Are you?” Yang asked, curious. “People like you don’t often end up working for other people. Not for long.” 

Reuenthal laughed, an oddly bitter sound. “I see why you’re so good at what you do. Reinhard’s right. You’re the only possible choice.”

“He can delay his run until after I’m done with my sabbatical then.” Yang peered out of the window. “Where are we going?” 

“I need a drink. You’re coming with me.”

They squeezed into a wine bar in Chinatown, of all places. It was a narrow, dark space, crowded out by the long bar. Bottles were stacked over the high shelves, and photographs tacked over the walls. A couple of Italian men chatted with the bartender as Reuenthal dragged him to an unoccupied table at the back of the bar. 

“Does a place like this serve brandy and tea?” Yang asked, eyeing the wine labels with professional curiosity.

“No. You’ll drink what you’re given.” Reuenthal spoke to the man at the bar in brisk Italian. A splash of red was poured into a glass, and Reuenthal swirled it, sniffing it before taking a sip. At a nod, another glass was produced. Reuenthal brought the wine over and sat down. Between the narrow table and Reuenthal’s long legs, the space felt unsettlingly intimate. Yang tried to relax, taking a sip of the wine.

“Good?” Reuenthal asked. 

“Would you order something that wasn’t good?” Yang took another sip. 

“Is that your idea of flattery?” 

“Some people like fine things for the status they convey. Others…” Yang looked Reuenthal pointedly over, “like fine things because beauty can sometimes briefly serve to make a lonely man’s life seem less lonely.” 

Reuenthal’s fingertips tensed over his wineglass. He drank instead of answering, silent until they finished the wine. Yang stopped him as Reuenthal got up to go to the counter. “You’re driving.”

“I know how much I can handle.” 

“All right, but let’s get some lunch first. There are a few decent places around here.” 

“In Chinatown?” Reuenthal said, sceptical. 

“Yes?”

“Chinese food?”

“Then?” 

“In _Milan_.” 

“So?” 

“No. If you’re hungry, we’ll eat. I’ll pick,” Reuenthal said.

Yang folded his arms. “If you want to pick, you can eat by yourself. You could call Bittenfeld, he’s probably still at the exhibition.” 

Reuenthal shuddered. “That’s not even funny. Fine. But you’ll owe me another drink.” He patted Yang pointedly on his thigh, smirking as Yang nearly fumbled his glass. “I’ll choose the place.”

#

“Nice,” Yang said as he followed Reuenthal into the hotel suite, “but isn’t drinking from a hotel minibar rather depressing?” The elegant room had a balcony with an expansive view of the garden Yang had so admired, but as he walked over to take a closer look, Reuenthal curled an arm around his waist.

“Did you think that I invited you up here to drink from the minibar?” 

“Maybe not, but it’s what we’re going to do,” Yang said, poking Reuenthal on the tip of his nose with a finger. “Sex is such an immense hassle.” 

Reuenthal stiffened, blinking slowly. “What.” 

“Even if it’s with someone like you, it’s not worth the trouble.” Yang tried to pull out of Reuenthal’s arms, but they wouldn’t budge. “Let’s drink. I like that, at least.”

“So I’ve noticed.” Reuenthal’s expression was a strange toss-up between indignation and bewilderment. Neither won—Reuenthal began to chuckle. “I don’t think I’ve ever been rejected in such an ungraceful manner.”

“I suppose you don't get rejected often.” Yang traced the graceful line of Reuenthal’s jaw. “I’ve worked with models who weren’t as handsome as you are.” 

Reuenthal sniffed. Something about his looks made him oddly bitter where many would’ve been proud, but Yang couldn’t quite put a finger on it. “If you like handsome men, you should’ve agreed to work for Reinhard.” 

“That’s different. To be honest, even if Reinhard were to approach me after my sabbatical for that project, I'd have declined.”

“Oh?” 

“I find it abhorrent. The idea that something like the Presidency of the United States could be bought. That if you just have enough private wealth, you can do what you like. Make all the noise in the world. He can do that without me. Gods know that it’s been done before—winning a Presidency just by being the loudest in the room.” Yang stroked his fingertips down to Reuenthal’s throat, over his pulse. “All he needs to do is to appeal to the darker side of human nature. Fear is the easiest way to change people, to herd them into doing what you want.”

“Until the system is fixed, we have to play by its rules,” Reuenthal said, undeterred by Yang’s words. “Reinhard’s wealth does little to change who he is.”

“Doesn’t it? Immense wealth—like Reinhard’s—is also abhorrent. It’s incredible to me that there are people in this world who die of hunger every day, while in the same world there are people who live aboard private yachts, who can buy their sister a castle for her birthday.”

“You’re hardly poor yourself. Your firm’s one of the most successful studios in the world.” 

“The metric’s not the same. Reinhard could hand out a thousand dollars to every American in the world, and it still won’t make a noticeable dent in his net worth. Nevermind branding, he should do that. Call it a social experiment. It’d be louder than a red hat.” 

“Winning an election is going to take more subtlety than that.” Reuenthal dropped his arm. “Tea and brandy, was it?” 

“Please.” Yang settled into a chair at the balcony as Reuenthal poked around the minibar. The brandy tea that Reuenthal served was as strong as Yang liked it. He’d been watching Yang closely at the restaurant. “You must be bored.” 

“How so?” 

“Bittenfeld said I wasn’t like one of your usual flings. What was he doing at miArt, anyway?” 

Reuenthal grimaced. “Reinhard’s been trying to soften his image, I think. He’s started by taking Hilda to concerts and exhibitions, but when the rumours started, he branched out to the rest of us. It’s annoying. Bittenfeld’s thrown himself wholeheartedly into the endeavour, though. What a jackass.”

“I don’t see what’s wrong with having some exposure to the art world.” Yang paused. “Though, maybe not such a _loud_ exposure.” 

“You like modern art?”

“I can’t say I understand a lot of it, but if great art is meant to evoke an emotional response in the viewer, then modern art has been the most successful form of art in my case. Some of the principles are quite relevant to my line of work.” 

They talked about art as they drank, until Yang was starting to feel more mellow about the strange situation he was in: alone in a hotel room with a man he barely knew. Reuenthal was intelligent and opinionated. He would be a far better conversationalist, Yang told him, if he didn’t also hold so much contempt for people in general. 

“Why not? We’re a wasteful, cowardly species.” Three glasses in, Reuenthal’s cheeks were flushed pink. “A parasite on our planet. Should we someday spread through the stars, we’ll be a parasite on those too.” 

Yang grabbed Reuenthal’s glass and set it aside, studying him closely. “I think you’ve had enough.” 

“You don’t know me.” Reuenthal made a grab for his glass and nearly knocked Yang’s cup over in his uncoordinated swipe. 

“Hai, hai. I’ll get you some water.” Yang got to his feet, circling around the table, only to yelp as Reuenthal hauled him down. Reuenthal huffed as Yang landed awkwardly on his lap, the glass shattering against the table. “Oh—” Yang stiffened as Reuenthal kissed him hard on the mouth and didn’t let up until Yang was panting for breath. 

“You’re drunk,” Yang said, squirming. 

“Hardly,” Reuenthal said. His eyes were clear, though Yang could smell the wine on him, and the fingers that tickled down to Yang’s shirt fumbled at the hem. 

Yang grabbed his wrists. “What are you doing?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” 

“I’m not your type.” 

Reuenthal rolled his eyes and pulled Yang closer, his ass rubbing against what was definitely a hot bulge in Reuenthal’s pants. “Don’t take the word of a jackass for something like that.” He kissed Yang’s jaw, stroking up his back with wandering fingers. “Let me make it worth your while.” 

“I doubt it,” Yang said, though his cock stirred against Reuenthal’s belly as Reuenthal kneaded his ass. They made it to bed without stepping on any of the broken glass, kicking off their shoes. Reuenthal bit down over Yang’s neck as he pushed Yang down onto the bed, pulling impatiently at his belt. Reuenthal grumbled something that Yang couldn’t make out, rearing onto his knees to strip Yang down roughly. “Hey, hey,” Yang said, chuckling as his pants and underwear were tossed off the bed. “Slow down. I’m not one of your usual fl—”

“Please,” Reuenthal grit out slowly, “don’t. Quote. That _man_. In bed.” 

“I was just trying to tell you to be gentler with my clothes,” Yang said, poking Reuenthal in the belly with the ball of his foot. Reuenthal grumbled something and lifted Yang’s foot, kissing him on the ankle. At Yang’s gasp, he chuckled, kissing his way up the sensitive skin under Yang’s thigh, marking a crooked trail up to his arousal. Yang yelped and clenched his hands into Reuenthal’s shirt as Reuenthal grasped him and licked the tip. As Reuenthal lazily sucked him down, Yang grabbed a pillow, pressing his mouth against it to stifle the loud groan that bubbled up from his throat. 

Reuenthal pulled off, snatching the pillow from Yang and tossing it off the bed. “I want to hear you,” he said, smirking as he licked a stripe up Yang’s cock. 

“It’s… it’s been a while,” Yang gasped, clutching at the sheets. 

“That’s what you get for thinking people aren’t worth the trouble.” 

“Not what I meant, I just don’t often feel… ngh!” Yang arched as Reuenthal took him easily into his mouth in a hot, wet slide that ended with Yang’s cock wedged against the back of Reuenthal’s throat. Reuenthal chuckled, the vibration humming deliciously through Yang’s flesh as Yang moaned, scratching at Reuenthal’s shoulders. He pinned Yang’s hips, pulling off and drinking Yang back down in a brisk rhythm that had Yang’s hips pushing helplessly against the sheets, his fingers twisting restlessly through Reuenthal’s hair as he whined. “Reu—I’m…!” Yang jerked against Reuenthal’s mouth, shaking.

Reuenthal drew back with a cough, catching the rest of Yang’s spend in his hand. He smiled with his teeth bared as he shifted up the bed, unzipping himself and drawing out his cock. “Can I?” Reuenthal asked, stroking his soiled fingers into Yang’s cleft. 

“I don’t think I’d… it’s been a while.” 

“Just fingers, and only as much as you can take.” 

“I’m not going to get hard again anytime soon,” Yang said, though he spread his knees. 

“Hmm. We’ll see.”

#

“What are you doing here?” Reuenthal glared at Bittenfeld as he sat down at their table during breakfast.

“Good morning to you too,” Bittenfeld said, unrepentant. He turned to Yang. “I mentioned things to Reinhard, and he told me who you are. You’re Yang Wen-li, right? From Iserlohn?” 

Yang winced. Bittenfeld had said that with his usual lack of indoor volume control, and the rest of the restaurant was peering over. “Yes?” 

“You don’t want to work for Reinhard? Why not? He’s a great man. It’d be a high honour,” Bittenfeld said, frowning.

“And…?” Yang took a sip of his tea. 

“Ha! So that’s it.” Bittenfeld stared at Reuenthal. “Going above and beyond? Maybe I misjudged you. I always thought you were an ambitious asshole who was after Reinhard’s position. So? Did you change his mind?” 

“It wasn’t like that,” Reuenthal said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Leave.” 

“He tried his best,” Yang said, selecting a croissant. 

“Wasn’t enough, eh?” Bittenfeld laughed loudly. “Wait till the others hear about this. Hey, maybe I could try!” 

Reuenthal’s hand tightened over a butter knife. “I’m going to kill you. Slowly.”

**Author's Note:**

> twitter: @manic_intent  
> my writing, prompt policy: manic-intent.tumblr.com 
> 
> Refs:  
> People in the design industry might recognise the story behind the start of this fic. One of the most famous living designers is Stefan Sagmeister, and he regularly goes on long sabbaticals where he doesn’t take clients. Once, the Obama campaign approached him to create a poster, but since he was on sabbatical he turned it down.


End file.
